Sand In Eyes
by SheSailsShips
Summary: '…she clangs the bottles she holds in one hand together- announcing her presence. She's wise enough to know that you don't sneak up on a man like Clint Barton…' Awaiting orders, Clint and Natasha share a moment in Panama. Clintasha. One-shot. Movieverse.


Title: Sand In Eyes

Summary: Awaiting orders, Clint and Natasha share a moment in Panama.

A/N: My first foray in writing for this ship- I hope I do them justice! I would so appreciate it if you dropped a line and let me know how I did!

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After a week on the move- they suddenly find themselves in La Palma. It's not the Ritz, it never is. No, it's barely more than a one roomed beach shack. It's a roof and walls cozied up to the Gulf of Panama. It's probably someone's idea of romantic. She can just hear a smarmy relator describing its rustic charm. But there's a storm moving in- she can see the dark smudge on the horizon expanding towards them, and their little hovel on the sand.

_It's just one night, and you've slept in much worse Romanoff_, she tells herself as she digs around in his duffle bag.

But still...

Though there's no rain yet, she spots plenty of holes in the tin thing that makes up the roof. The walls don't fare much better- they're warped and battered from all their time standing in opposition to the ocean. The wind is kicking up, bringing those storm clouds in faster now- with each gust the structure creaks and groans. She shivers at the unnatural chill. It's still a balmy seventy-five, but after running full tilt for days on end in ninety plus degrees and an unfathomable percentage of humidity- it feels_ cold._

A bit more jostling with the bag and her fingers finally close around their object: his pullover. It's fleece on the inside, he hauls it around incase he's dropped in the mountains. She slips it on and it reaches mid-thigh. Better. She's warmer already.

Natasha's bare feet pad across the wooden floor, sand sticking to her soles. She pauses at a wicker chair, the only piece of furniture to be found (excepting the pile of mattresses that pass for a bed...) in the cottage, to pick up two bottles of Corona, their sweat- like hers, dried by the change in temperature.

He's outside, where he's been for the past three hours. Waiting for the text. And then they'd be gone again.

She clangs the bottles she holds in one hand together- announcing her presence. She's wise enough to know that you don't sneak up on a man like Clint Barton. Not and live. Though, acknowledging the time they've spent together- she suspects he can distinguish her approach. She can recognize _his._

He breaks his gaze from that line in the distance where the gulf meets the darkening sky to nod at her. It's invitation enough and she joins him, her shoulder grazing his as she sinks in the sand. She settles in, noticing that he's made use of his time out here. The sand is compacted where they sit, burrowed down by his hands and feet. They're situated in a sort of bunker- a _nest._ A small sort of smile comes to her lips, the first since leaving Miami. She isn't surprised, he does this. It's how he relaxes.

Her hair blows around her head like a kind of red halo, as strong gusts whip across the gulf. She shifts where she sits, leeching the heat from his body. He's warm and it feels good. She leans against him then properly, no space between where they align, shoulders to hips. She feels the slight pressure of him leaning back, he turns his head to look at her, to catch her eye.

"Cold?" he asks.

"Yeah, " she answers, going so far as to tuck her bare feet under where his thigh meets the sand. He lets her, his attention returning to the churning waters just a few yards from them. They become still this way, pressed together, her knees drawn up to her chest, her feet disappearing beneath him. Watching. Waiting.

The two bottles of Corona remain where she dropped them, untouched. It isn't alcohol she needs right now, it's sleep. She glances at the watch on his wrist: 1805. Officially, it's been twenty-four hours since she last slept. She can last on seventy-two without shaving much more than a half a second off her reaction time, but she can feel the dull throb at the back of her head telling her, _close your eyes._

She's tempted. On a solo mission,_ never_- but she has him here. She knows he scoped the area. His quiver lays just inches from his ready hand. She's with _him._ She blinks and her eyes remained closed longer than they should… she can do it- stay awake, but that doesn't mean she has to. There's not one person in the world she would trust this way, but she has _him._

He suddenly moves, his arm vacating the place where it rested against hers. The change in position is unexpected. She's flush with his side now- his every breath in time with the waves that pound into the beach, in time with the blood pounding in her ears. His hand is suddenly cupping the nape of her neck, and then he squeezes. There is a rush of pleasure and she really closes her eyes this time. He knows it's been twenty-four hours. He's familiar with the ache. He continues his ministrations, catching her low groan over the squall building around them.

His voice is in her ear, his nose brushes her temple: "Get some sleep Tasha."


End file.
